


The Magician and the Rabbit

by stardreamer



Category: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Reality, Ballet, Furry, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:18:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardreamer/pseuds/stardreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One White Rabbit meets another under unusual circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Magician and the Rabbit

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I'm not at all sure how to tag this; it's sort of fanfic and sort of original. My friend asked for a story in which his RPG character meets the White Rabbit from the Royal Ballet production of "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" and this is what came out.

Peter loves small clubs. 

True, the larger venues bring in more money per show - but he enjoys the intimacy of working close to an audience, being able to make actual eye contact when asking for a volunteer, and catching the expressions of astonishment out of the corner of his eye even while focused on the trick. Fortunately, his employer, Morgana the Magnificent, feels the same way; she says it keeps her edge sharp, and that if you can fool people at tables ten feet away from you, you can fool anyone. So there is always a healthy scattering of small venues on their tour schedule. 

Another thing he likes about small clubs is the way the audience feels free to come up and chat at the end of the show, while they're packing up the equipment. The women (and the occasional young man) cluster around Peter, flirting and asking for autographs and having their picture taken with him. Being by nature friendly and outgoing, he enjoys the attention; he preens and poses, flirts back, and hands out numerous souvenir cards. These are like business cards minus the personal information, with his picture on one side and his (stage) name and occupation on the other, plus space for an autograph if someone wants it. Some people collect and trade them like baseball cards, while others just want a personalized memento of the show. In the meantime, Morgana performs a similar dance with the men (and the occasional young woman) who flock around her. 

Everyone assumes there are groupies, but Peter and Morgana are both acutely aware of how much trouble "messing around with the locals" could cause for the act, and for their booking company, so they almost never accept any of the invitations they're offered. They've had a comfortable friends-with-benefits relationship for several years, which keeps them from feeling lonely and frustrated on the road. 

One of Peter's jobs is to set the stage, and during the process evaluate the audience. Tonight's crowd looks promising - the club is SRO at 120 seats counting the bar, and there's a smattering of applause when he rolls the equipment chest out. He waves back and takes a quick skimming look while positioning Morgana's table. 

Well, that's unusual. There's another white rabbit in the audience tonight, in the second rank of tables. He's a bit older than Peter, wearing a three-piece suit that looks like a period piece, and there's the fob of an actual pocket-watch dangling across the vest. His round wire-rimmed spectacles are somewhat dated as well, and the outfit and his wavy, slightly-rumpled hair give him almost a professorial look. Their eyes meet, and there's a nearly physical shock of instant attraction; Peter can feel a tingle running from the very tips of his ears all the way down to his tail, and he knows his nose has gone bright red. He turns quickly back to his stage-setting. 

During the first few tricks he's preternaturally aware of the other man, and finds himself adding little flourishes to his usual routine - until he comes frighteningly close to missing a cue, for the first time in ages. He recovers smoothly and forces himself to focus on the act, pushing thoughts of the attractive stranger to the back of his mind until the show is over. 

The white rabbit hangs back until the usual gaggle of women have completed their business and left, not without a few lingering backward looks. Peter feels lucky; he's only had to turn down one proposition tonight, and she took it with good grace. Sometimes it gets... awkward. And now at last he's face to face with the only person in the audience whose opinion he really cares about tonight. 

"Very enjoyable show," the man says, putting his hand out. His voice is deep and pleasant, with a touch of an accent that Peter can't identify. 

"I'm glad you liked it," Peter responds. The other man's hand is warm and slightly callused, and a spike of desire flares along Peter's nerves. At this range, the man seems like a barely-controlled ball of nervous energy, making small twitches and fidgets every few seconds, although his gaze is steady and serene. Peter is feeling rather fidgety himself, and is uncharacteristically at a loss for words. 

"Could I perhaps buy you a drink, or dinner? The kitchen here will be serving for another hour, and I know how lightly performers eat before a show." 

"I... well... yes, I'd like that." _Oh, smooth,_ Peter thinks to himself. "I need to finish packing up here first, though, and change out of my stage costume." 

"Take your time," the other man says, smiling. "I'm not late for anything tonight."

*** 

Backstage, Morgana arches an eyebrow at him. "So _that's_ what got into you tonight," she teases. "I wondered why you were so distracted early on."

"I don't... it's not... I don't know," he stammers out. "If you'd rather I didn't..." 

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Go on, have fun, he looks nice. And if you're in this kind of state over him, I think it's worth the risk. Just don't be late getting to the bus in the morning, hm?" She pats him affectionately on the tail and heads for the women's dressing room. 

Despite being in a rush, Peter takes a moment to survey himself in the full-length mirror in the men's dressing room, trying to view himself as a stranger would. He sees a young buck rabbit of medium height and slender build, with long white hair that matches his fur, wearing a skin-tight two-piece outfit in counterchanged black and red, adorned with card-suit sigils on the chest and down the legs. His outfit displays an unusual amount of skin for a male assistant, while Morgana's stage costume is the standard magician's full-coverage formalwear, albeit cut for her figure - it's one of the things that differentiates them from other magic acts. He's never thought of himself as being more than averagely attractive; he knows it's the glamour of the act and his flamboyant stage persona that bring the women up to flirt with him after a show, or get him delivered cards or flowers or candy with contact information attached. But this feels... different. 

Peter hurries through the process of cleaning off his face and packing his costume and stage makeup into his show carry-bag. The roadies will take care of getting the equipment loaded onto the tour bus, so he doesn't need to worry about that. His civvies are, as always, casual but presentable - dark close-fitting jeans with a lighter straight-hemmed denim shirt which can double as a lightweight jacket if he leaves it unbuttoned. He debates doing so, but then it occurs to him that the club would probably take exception for health-code reasons. But he can certainly wear it untucked, and leave the top three buttons undone. 

Out front, he has to peer around until a gesture catches his eye; the other man has settled at a table further back and less visible than the one from which he'd watched the show. The ordering process takes a few minutes. When the waiter has brought their drinks and taken their meal orders, Peter realizes something. "You know, I don't think I ever caught your name." 

"Oh, my ears and whiskers, I'm sorry! You can call me Charles," the other man says. 

Charles, it turns out, is also a traveling entertainer; he has a gig here tomorrow night and came in a day early to check out the venue. He makes his living as a raconteur, his persona that of a "lost traveler" telling exotic tales of the homeland to which he can never return. 

"So, were you wearing your stage gear tonight as advertising?" Peter ventures. 

Charles chuckles. "Actually, this is my normal mode of dress. I fear I'm a bit eccentric." 

"It suits you," says Peter, and is rewarded with a smile that makes him feel warm all over. 

Over the course of dinner and conversation, Charles shares a few of his tales with Peter - stories of a land of wonder and magic and chaos, of his own life there and the others who shared it with him, and of a young girl who came to visit and had some adventures of her own. The nervous energy Peter has already noticed brings the stories to life, even in a back corner in the dimly-lit club; he can imagine how much more effective they would be on stage with full lighting. It's not flirtation as he normally thinks of the process, but he can feel the pull between them becoming more intense with every tale told, every conversational exchange. 

Gradually, from phrases dropped here and there, Peter comes to understand that Charles believes his own stories - he is absolutely convinced that they really happened, in a world from which he has been exiled for decades, despite not being much older than Peter. At first Peter is taken aback; he wonders if he can extract himself from the situation gracefully, and then whether he genuinely wants to leave or is just uncomfortable with someone being "different" in a way he wasn't expecting. But then he notices that, while Charles may believe his own tales, he doesn't seem to expect _Peter_ to do so. And then it dawns on him that this is a gesture of trust, and that Charles thinks of it as not offering him false coin... and that in turn makes him wonder how many people _have_ extracted themselves from the situation at this point, gracefully or not. Underneath the energy and good cheer, he can see a very lonely man, lost in a world where he feels he will never belong. 

Abruptly, he reaches out and puts his hand over the other man's. "Charles... stay with me tonight. I can't offer more than that, but..." 

Charles turns his hand to clasp Peter's. "I don't ask more than that." More quietly, "Thank you for offering; I wouldn't have dared to ask." 

That's odd, and makes Peter cock his head in confusion. "Did you not think the attraction was mutual?" 

"Oh, I could tell that much. But... strange things... tend to happen when I seek companionship. I can take it if freely offered, but asking for it... isn't a good idea." 

Peter decides that he _really_ doesn't want to know.

*** 

Back in Peter's hotel room, Charles raises a hand to cup Peter's face gently. He is several inches taller than Peter, and so well-proportioned that the breadth of his shoulders has not been obvious until now. His eyes, behind the old-fashioned spectacles, are dark and warm... and suddenly, without Peter being sure who made the first move, they are locked together in a tight embrace. One of Charles' hands is behind his head, his fingers twined into Peter's hair; the other arm is wrapped around him, that hand sliding beneath the untucked shirt/jacket to caress his back and tail. The kiss they share is hot but gentle, an exploration and invitation rather than a demand.

Charles traces a line of kisses up Peter's jawbone, to just beneath his ear. "So beautiful," he says softly, and the warmth of his breath on that sensitive spot makes Peter quiver with arousal. "I spent far too much of the show thinking about how soft your fur must be, and wanting to feel your body against mine like this." The scent of him is intoxicating, musky with a faint hint of curry, as if he eats a lot of Indian food. 

"I nearly blew a cue because I was thinking about you," Peter confesses shyly. "That hasn't happened to me in... forever." 

"I'm flattered." Charles' fingers are busy undoing the buttons of Peter's shirt; he runs his hands over Peter's chest and shoulders, easing the shirt off and letting it drop to the floor. The jeans are next, and he kisses his way across Peter's collarbone and down his chest as he coaxes them off. "Are you all right? You're shaking." 

"My knees are wobbly, that's all. And that's because of you." 

"Well, that will never do. Let's get you off your feet, then." Charles flips the light switch off, scoops Peter into his arms, and carries him over to the bed. It seems to be no effort for him at all, and when he starts peeling out of his own clothing, Peter can see why. Charles may look like a professor, but he has the sort of muscles more often associated with a professional athlete. 

Peter is no weakling himself, but he's the lean-and-wiry type, not especially muscular, and his eyes widen in admiration. "Wow, you're gorgeous," he says. "Why do you dress to hide your body?" 

"I get into fewer fights this way," Charles answers wryly. 

"Okay, I can see that. But if you don't mind my asking... what do you _do_ to get that kind of build?" 

"Some of it is merely fortune, of course, the kind of body I was born with. But... in another life, I was a dancer, a good one. And I liked the way that made me feel, so I've tried to keep it up to the best of my ability. Many towns have a studio where I can pay for a few hours of practice time. In between, as I can, I work out at gymnasiums." 

"Wow." Peter hates repeating himself, but there's just no other word that fits. "Could you... show me?" 

"Well... it's a little cramped here, but I think... yes, this routine will work." And Charles stands for a few seconds, gathering himself, and then launches into a set of dancer's exercises. The drapes are open and the moon is shining through the window; he flits into and out of the bar of light like a fairy-tale creature, ending with a series of breathtaking leaps that make him look altogether immune to the pull of gravity and test the limits of the old, high-ceilinged room. 

Peter is entranced, and hard enough to ache. "The world lost a great dancer when you went on the road." 

"Ah, but if I had stayed in that world, I wouldn't be here now, seeing you all luminous in the moonlight like this. You really are beautiful, you know, and I want to pay proper tribute to you." Charles moves gracefully onto the bed, pressing Peter down with the weight of his body so that their erect members are in contact, and Peter moans. 

Charles kisses him slowly and thoroughly. The little tics and twitches of his skin and muscles have been muted, perhaps by the exercise of dancing, but they still happen unexpectedly, and it's like no touch Peter has ever felt before, and stunningly hot; he can't help gasping when a twitch hits an especially sensitive spot. He wraps his arms around Charles, stroking his back and playing with his tail, which evokes an all-over skin-shiver that makes Peter moan again. 

They spend a lot of time like that, slowly exploring each others' bodies in exquisite detail, shifting position occasionally so that first one is on top, then the other, then facing each other side by side. Charles' fur is silky and sleek, and Peter revels in the feel of it, and the contrast with the hard muscle underneath it. For his part, Charles seems equally enamored of Peter's softer coat with its touch of fluffiness, and of his slight-but-fit build. He runs his tongue up the edge of Peter's ear, and for just a moment there is nothing in the world but that hot-and-cold shiver of sensation; Peter returns the favor, and Charles makes a noise deep in his throat that goes straight to Peter's groin. By unspoken agreement they are cautious about touching each other's cocks too much or too soon, but Peter knows he has nothing to be ashamed of in that area and it's obvious that Charles doesn't either. 

Eventually Charles begins kissing and stroking Peter's chest with greater urgency, then moves down to his stomach and thighs, finally taking Peter's erect and twitching cock into his mouth. Peter nearly loses control right then, but Charles pulls back and lets him wrestle his responses back into submission. Not that it helps much when Charles begins to fondle his balls and slides a finger down to play with the rim of his ass before starting again. His ears bob gently against Peter's stomach, his tongue is sure and talented, and no amount of determination to spin this encounter out does Peter any good at all; he climaxes with a mind-wrenching rush, arching off the mattress in his ecstasy. 

Charles moves back up the bed, pulling Peter's head onto his shoulder and holding him as he comes down from the orgasm high. It feels natural for Peter to shift a leg over Charles' thighs, and he realizes that the other man is still fully hard, "Oh... sorry... give me a minute." 

"Actually," Charles says, "I would prefer to mount you, if you have no objection." 

Peter quivers again, and his flaccid cock twitches. "Yes, I'd like that. I have condoms and lube." 

"Good. I have the former, of course, but as I wasn't expecting to encounter such an opportunity tonight, not the latter. And while saliva works, it's rather an inadequate substitute." Charles carefully untangles himself from Peter, and fetches a towel from the bathroom and the lube from the toiletries kit. He opens a condom and applies it deftly. "Would you rather be on your knees or on your back?" 

"I want to look at you," Peter says firmly. "You keep telling me _I'm_ beautiful - have you looked in a mirror lately?" 

For just a second Charles' expression goes faraway and strange. Then he's back in the moment, smiling fondly down at Peter. "As you wish." They spread the towel onto the bed, and Peter settles himself onto it and opens his legs. He's already half-hard again with anticipation. 

Charles is every bit as good at this as he is at blowjobs. He uses a lube-coated finger to stretch Peter out very gently, and takes his time about entering. Peter, in turn, takes the opportunity to relax and just look at Charles, memorizing everything about him, focusing on how it feels to be taken, to be _wanted,_ by someone like him. The world narrows to the sensation of Charles' cock deep inside him, the other man's hand wrapped around his own cock, and the warm, passionate gaze holding his. 

Normally Peter wouldn't have expected to climax a second time so soon, but the soft sounds Charles makes as he nears his own orgasm are insanely erotic, as is the slight roughness of his hand against Peter's cock, which is soon completely hard again. Then Charles shifts the angle and hits just the right spot, and Peter sees stars, and their voices blend in hoarse cries of fulfillment. Charles lowers his body gently onto Peter's and they lie sweetly entwined in blissful afterglow. For the first time since they've been together, Charles seems totally relaxed and at peace, all the nervous energy of his body poured out with his seed, and Peter is inordinately pleased by the thought of having been able to do this for him. 

After a few minutes, Peter stirs. "We should get up and clean off before we're glued together," he says, and they do so. When Charles starts to reach for his clothing, Peter stops him. "Stay, please. I want to feel you next to me as I sleep." 

"I will, gladly. Thank you," Charles answers. "For everything. And perhaps this is silly, but - could I have your autograph?" 

Peter pulls out a souvenir card and signs it: "To Charles - may you find your way home someday. Peter"  
Charles slips it into the inside pocket of his vest with a wistful smile. 

They settle into the bed with Charles' muscular chest close against Peter's back and his arm wrapped around Peter, snuggling him like a large stuffed toy. It feels _safe_ in a way that Peter can't really articulate, and he's too tired and sated to think about it for very long.

*** 

When Peter wakes in the morning, Charles is gone. There is no time to search for him even if he thought that would be welcome; he has barely enough time to shower, dress, finish packing, and head for the bus. But on the pillow next to his lies a souvenir card. Charles' picture is on one side; on the other, in a flowing, old-fashioned script, is inscribed,

_**CHARLES DODGSON** _  
_Professional Raconteur_  
 _Startling Stories - Amazing Adventures - Tall Tales_  


Underneath that is a note: "To Peter - always remember, as I will. Charles"

Peter runs his finger lightly across the picture, and tucks the card carefully into his wallet, where it won't be damaged. _As if I could ever forget,_ he thinks, and then goes forth to meet the new day.

**Author's Note:**

> So, the White Rabbit is [this guy](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPSEA6dDmlU) (from about 1:00 to 1:30). (I highly recommend watching the whole ballet -- it's available on DVD and it's _fabulous!_ ) Peter prefers that his picture not be used. The concept and setting were definitely influenced by [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wl3nDnKkF2k), and there may be just a hint of _Sliders_ in there as well, though it's not explicit.


End file.
